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The Hunter in Johnny Depp

by Nick Tosches
photos by Terry Richardson
Vanity Fair
November 2011

For every Pirates of the Caribbean
blockbuster he
makes, Johnny Depp has a project with deep personal meaning, such as
this
month’s The Rum Diary, an adaptation
of the Hunter S. Thompson novel that Depp himself discovered. In
London, Nick
Tosches finds the 48-year-old actor (and Tosches’ longtime friend)
unchanged by
fame or fortune or time, and ready to drink, gamble, and ponder the
mysteries
of his life—anything but have his photo taken.

It is Johnny Depp’s The
Rum Diary as much as it is the late Hunter S. Thompson’s The
Rum Diary. For one thing, The Rum Diary,
Hunter’s only published
novel, likely never would have seen the light of day if Johnny hadn’t
discovered it in the writer’s basement while staying with him 15 years
ago,
preparing to make Hunter’s Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas into a movie with the director Terry
Gilliam. Hunter
himself had forgotten about The Rum Diary,
which he had begun writing in 1959, at the age of 22, and had not been
able to
get published. Johnny found it when he was rummaging through some old
boxes of
Hunter’s works and notes.

“These perfect boxes,” Johnny says. “I pulled it out. I was
like, ‘What is this?’ Hunter was like, ‘Oh shit. The Rum Diary.
Oh yeah.’ It was hidden. Hunter didn’t know it was
there.” Soon after Johnny found the book, it was finally published, in
1998,
the year the movie of Fear and Loathing
in Las Vegas came out.

Thirteen years later, another adaptation, this one as much
Johnny’s vision as Hunter’s. It’s an enhancement and a furthering of
the novel,
and brings to it the rich maturity that the voice of the young aspiring
writer
had not yet achieved. It is The Rum Diary seen as Hunter might have
written it
in his later prime.

I knew that Johnny, who was very close to and fond of
Hunter, and very admiring of his work, would have some enlightening
things to
say about the movie, and I wanted to hear them. I also wanted to spend
some
time with him, as we hadn’t seen each other in years. As it turned out,
this
wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Several years ago, when I had
arranged
a dream date (disguised as an interview) with Charlotte Rampling, for
whom I
had lusted since seeing The Night Porter
but had never even met, it took only a telephone call and a few minutes
to set
things up. But arranging time for a get-together with Johnny, whom I’ve
known
for years and whose son, Jack, is my godson, took more than a week of
back-and-forth hurdlings.

You see, Johnny works a lot. He keeps to a grueling
schedule. (Yes, that’s right: grueling
schedule. This is supposed to be journalism, isn’t it? Don’t
be surprised
if shocking display or phenomenal
or even pausing pensively before answering, as if turning a
coin in his mind
lurks around the corner. But I wouldn’t do that. To you maybe. But not
to
Revelatin’ John.) I want to ask him about this schedule, as I suspect
he may
have become, to use a bit of New Age psychobabble, a workaholic.

First, however, I want to ask him something I didn’t plan on
asking him. We are both in London, where he is shooting yet another
movie, Dark Shadows, directed by Tim Burton.
Our strategy for the day has been for him to get the photo shoot for
this story
out of the way by midafternoon, then sit down for our interview, so as
to leave
us free to go drinking and gambling into the night, even though he does
have to
be on the Dark Shadows set very early the next morning. As it turns
out, he has
decided against doing the photo shoot, postponing it for another day.
But it
takes him four hours to resolve the situation. Which has left me in my
room,
nice as it is, at Brown’s Hotel, hanging around for those four hours
waiting
for a call, and I am sort of pissed off. But as the car finally passes
through
the gates to pull up to the imposing red-brick Mayfair manor that
Johnny is
occupying while working in London, I am no longer at all pissed off. I
am
merely looking forward to seeing Johnny.

I slouch into a big,
deep, comfortable couch in a big, opulent room that is
vaguely evocative of
a royal Arabian majlis, or
luxuriously welcoming lounging room. (The manor was indeed owned by a
fabulously wealthy Arabian eminence.) Dominating the room, in an ornate
gilt
frame on the far wall, directly across from where I sit, is Banksy’s How
Do You Like Your Eggs? The painting
shows a woman in full black Muslim garb and veil and a cheap
sex-novelty
kitchen apron, a spatula in one hand, a skillet containing an egg in
the other,
her eyes narrowly visible, her eyebrows arched slightly, cryptically,
defiantly. After negotiations with the artist and his representatives,
Johnny
acquired the painting in May of this year. It is one of the most
bizarrely
captivating images I’ve ever seen.

Then in walks Johnny. He sits down beside me with a big
grin, lights a smoke, and out comes the Château L’Évangile 2002. The
same old
Johnny. The Johnny Depp who long ago pumped gas at a Shell station in
Miramar,
Florida, was pulled by the owner from the easier job of working the
pump to the
harder labor in the garage, and drifted west with members of his band,
The
Kids. In Los Angeles, he continued to pursue music—which he does to
this day,
having become a formidable guitarist—but he got along by attending the
city’s
many Scientology study groups, which paid attendees, even nonbelievers
like
Johnny, $3 each to sit through them. (“I
went to a bunch, man. It was so great, it was so fantastic.”) Turning
20, he
ended up in pictures, and today, at 48, he is regarded as the biggest
movie
star around. And yet he is the same old Johnny, his circumstances
changed, but
not his nature. I’ve never found it hard to imagine him still pumping
gas with
a cigarette dangling from his lips. And I’ve never ceased to wonder at
the rare
range and depth of his reading, intelligence, knowledge, and interests:
from
Baudelaire to Beckett to Burroughs; from insights into Ch’an Buddhism
that pick
up where The Transmission of the Lamp
leaves off to observations on the nature of things that pick up where
Lucretius
left off to a connoisseurship of both wine and Mountain Dew—a range and
depth
even more rare among actors, most of whom lead hollow scripted lives,
most of
whose humanity is an awkwardly assumed pretense, a role playacted
mawkishly.

But the question remains: How can someone who seems to have
had his picture on every magazine cover in the world seven times over
be so
antagonistic to having his picture taken?

It turns out that “antagonistic” is too mild a word.

“Well, you just feel like you’re being raped somehow.”
Strong words from an easygoing, down-to-earth man not given to drama in
his
everyday life. “Raped. The whole thing. It feels a kind of weird—just
weird,
man. Weird. Like you meet people and they say, ‘Can I have a picture
with you?’
and that’s great. That’s fine. That’s not a problem. But whenever you
have a
photo shoot or something like that, it’s like—you just feel dumb. It’s
just so
stupid.”

He says this
antipathy is nothing new. He’s always hated to have his
picture taken. Even
a quarter of a century ago and more, back in the days of A
Nightmare on Elm Street, when he needed all the publicity he
could get, photo shoots creeped him out.

I move on to the workaholic angle. About five
or six years
ago, at a restaurant in Paris, La Closerie des Lilas, I asked him why
he kept
working, why he didn’t just wave it all away and live. He said then
that it was
because they might not want him in five years.

He was already rich and famous when I had first met him,
maybe a dozen years ago. Then one day at a pizza place in London a few
years
later, in the early spring of 2002, he withdrew a script from his
satchel,
asked me to open it anywhere, look at it, and tell him what I thought.
If you
want to do it, I said, do it. It was Pirates
of the Caribbean. So by the time I asked him that question at
that
restaurant in Paris, a few more years after that, he was really, really
rich
and really, really famous. And now those five years after which they
might not
want him anymore have passed, too, and he is really, really, really
rich and really, really, really famous. What is his
excuse now
for continuing to work so hard?

“Bascally, if they’re going to pay me the stupid money right
now, I’m going to take it. I have to. I mean, it’s not for me. Do you
know what
I mean? At this point, it’s for my kids. It’s ridiculous, yeah, yeah.
But
ultimately is it for me? No. No. It’s for the kids.”

Though “workaholism” is an ungainly neologism (and the more
sinister Japanese karoshi, meaning
death from overwork, an even newer, if less ungainly, one), there is no
escaping the impression that Johnny certainly seems
to be working too hard. At least to me, who would like
nothing more than to live out my days in quiet serenity in a hammock
strung
between two big old shady trees.

So I persist. I know him to be a traditional
family man, in the best, truest sense of that
phrase; Vanessa Paradis, his French better half, their two children,
Lily-Rose,
now 12, and Jack, now 9, are the center of his world. But—

“And, come on, it’s for you, too.”

“Not really, because I keep working—I’m constantly fucking
like—I’m slamming the fucking—you know, every day is like fucking . .
.” He
takes a breath, takes a drag, takes a sip, and starts again. “There is
a part
of me that needs to have this kind of stimulation to the brain. I must
have
fucking stimulation.”

And what about all the Hollywood bullshit that comes with
it? Is adulation addictive?

“it is what it is.”

What it all comes down to is irrefutable.

“I’m happy,” he continues. “I’m happy. It’s fine.”

The wine is going down good.

“Yeah,” Johnny says with a smile, “we have to go gamble.”

“What I wanted to ask you—“

“Oh, my brother, I’m so fucking happy to see you.”

“What do you get sick of being asked?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Really. No.”

“Is there something you wish somebody would ask you?”

“No.” This brings on a good deal of laughter. “No.”

I want to go gambling, too. I have my blue Ritz Club
membership card in my wallet and fond memories of our last long night
there at
the blackjack tables and the bar; the night when a gambler of unknown
ethnic
origin at our table, asked by a cocktail waitress if he should like
something
to drink, said, “I like bean soup,” and Johnny and I, looking
at each
other,
couldn’t suppress our laughter; the night we won a bundle. But I want
to talk
about The Rum Diary too.

Those who can recall back a number of column inches ago
might remember my saying that The Rum
Diary as brought to the screen is as much Johnny’s vision as
Hunter’s, and
that it is an enhancement and a furthering, rather than a faithful
visualization, of the novel. The time and setting have been changed
only
slightly. The novel opens in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in 1958; the movie
in San
Juan, 1960. (The reasons for the change of year were to
allow for
television
images of Richard Nixon as a presidential candidate and for a bit of
surfing
drum music that hadn’t existed in 1958. It also seems that in 1960
civilians
would more easily have been able to obtain military eyedroppers of LSD,
as the
characters in the film do, than in 1958.)

The film’s three main confederates—Paul Kemp (Johnny), Sala
(Michael Rispoli), and Moberg (Giovanni Ribisi), all workers at an
English-language San Juan rag—are consolidations and mergings of
attributes
drawn from these and other characters in the novel. Though the essence
of the
tale remains true to the book—Hunter was at heart a moralist in the
tradition
of Thomas Paine, and this is at heart a story of down-and-out good
against
respectable evil, as well as the story of a writer finding both the
truth of
himself and his own true voice—aspects of the movie’s plot are often
more
inspired by than based on the novel. Several of the picture’s most
impressive
and imaginative scenes are not to be found, or even suggested, in the
novel,
and certain minor elements of the novel take on greater significance in
the
movie.

Bruce Robinson, the British writer and director of the
picture, told me that “there are only three lines of Hunter’s in the
entire
screenplay.” (“Have some fun with a fucking Luger” is one of them.) But
at the
same time, he insisted, “I’d say the movie is faithful to him in
context of
vernacular.”

Johnny has spoken of making this movie for more than a
decade, and his desire to do so never wavered.

“It’ been there for so long,” he says. “So, yeah, I made
this film before I made it.”

Robinson, best known as the screenwriter of The
Killing Fields and the
writer-director of Withnail and I,
was cooling his heels in 2005, having not made a film since 1999, when
Johnny,
who long had been very enamored of Withnail
and I, sent him a copy of Hunter’s novel and asked if he
should like to
“kick it into a screenplay.”

Johnny knew that Hunter had also admired Withnail
and I. So, as Johnny says, “I
pulled the fucker out of retirement.”

Speaking from his
farmhouse four hours west of London, Robinson tells me he
“suffered
incredible problems trying to get a grip on” The Rum Diary.
He read the book twice, then threw it away. The main
problem, as he saw it, was that Hunter had split himself into two
characters,
Kemp and another named Yeamon, and Hunter’s spirit needed to be
embodied in the
character of Kemp alone.

Johnny agreed. “Bruce handled it brilliantly, amazingly.
You’ve got Kemp and Yeamon, who represent Hunter. With Kemp there’s no
way to
follow these two characters. So Bruce just went”—Johnny pantomimes
tossing
aside an imaginary book—“which was actually Hunter’s kind of thinking,
you
know?”

“I wrote it entirely in isolation,” says Robinson of the
script, the final version of which was finished in February 2009.
“Fortunately
Johnny liked it.”

Robinson was well aware that the character of Kemp as he had
written him was a nuanced, complex, and difficult one. Johnny had
played Hunter
before, for Gilliam. But this was a different Hunter.

“Hey,” Johnny told Robinson as shooting was about to begin,
“just trust me.”

As for his approach to directing the picture, Robinson was
firmly convinced that the strength of the acting and the take should
have
dominance over any self-indulgent arty camerawork. It was his preferred
way of
directing:

“I don’t want the camera to be a participant. I want it to
be a privileged observer.”

Johnny says that the most arduous part of making the movie
was “just every day sort of policing it, being the police of what
Hunter
would
or would not have wanted, and really kind of going, All right, here’s
the
scene. That’s great. Here’s a scene, but we have to police this scene.”
Some
things work in books that just don’t work in movies, Johnny points out.
“And
Hunter understood that. He understood it. He understood.”

Me, I think Hunter would have gotten a bigger kick out of
the movie than he did out of the novel he had stashed and forgotten.

I tell Johnny that, to my eye, the movie is timeless, the
way great old-fashioned pictures—and I mean that in the best way—used
to be.
Most movies these days are short-lived, soon outdated and forgotten,
relying on
special effects that become quickly superseded, or on numerous
cellphone calls from
handheld devices that become just as quickly outmoded. But here is a
movie that
will hold up, that will be as exceptionally fine and enjoyable as it is
today
for many years to come.

Johnny doesn’t mention it until I say what I do, but he
agrees to having similar feelings: “It’s kind of Casablanca
in a way, isn’t it?”

Cockfighting figures in Hunter’s book, but it is more
central to the plot of the picture. In this day of animal-rights
lunatics and
political-correction camps, this is wonderfully refreshing and far more
daring
than the sex-scene one-upmanship of other movies.

The cockfighting scenes were, of course, done in accordance
with the American Humane Association rules, but they look real.

“Oh, that kept them from going the whole distance and
getting at each other for the kill?”

“Yeah, we did hold them back. We did. I think it was
stupid.”

(Johnny’s sister Christi, who runs their Infinitum Nihil
production company, was of a gentler nature when it came to the cocks,
which
now live comfortably in her big backyard, outside of L.A. “All good,”
Christi
reports.)

Even more difficult to film than the cockfighting scenes was
the film’s LSD sequence, which is as unnervingly realistic as the
goings-on in
the gamecock pits. Except for a sole hallucination involving a
character’s
tongue in one of the LSD scenes, there are no other special effects in
the
movie. Yet, through words and acting alone, this is the best,
truest-to-life
LSD stuff I’ve ever seen conveyed on film. The sequence also contains
what to
me is the essential line in the film, the revelation given to Kemp by a
lobster
in a filthy tank in the dark of night on a filthy pier: “Human beings
are the
only creatures on earth that claim a god and the only living thing that
behaves
like it hasn’t got one.”

In the original script, the encounter with the mystical
lobster led to lines from Coleridge’s
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”: The
very deep did rot: O Christ! / That ever this should be! / Yea, slimy
things
did crawl with legs / Upon the slimy sea.

But from alcohol, as much as things most wretched, come
wonders sublime.

Robinson recalls that the words of the lobster’s revelation
“occurred to me five years ago and, somewhat oiled, I wrote them in one
of
Johnny’s notebooks on his plane, not thinking I’d use them in the
flick. Then,
when I came to write the acid scene, this line seemed appropriate (and
true),
so I incorporated it and gave it to the lobster. I got the idea of the
lippy
lobster from an ad I’d seen in some 1940s magazine where such a
dime-in-the-slot ‘fishing machine’ was featured. Hence the religious
lobster.”

The revelation of the lobster was a great line. What does
Johnny do when he comes across a bad line in a script?

“I change it. I just go: “You now what? It ain’t right. It’s
not right.’ I change it. I do. I re-write.”

Years ago Johnny directed his friend Marlon Brando in a
movie called The Brave. He spoke of
editing it, of re-editing it, but it never came out in the U.S. I ask
him about
that one. How does he feel about that picture today?

“I’m proud. You know?”

Now that his production company is becoming a powerful
presence in the movie business, will he finally release it?

“No, no, no. The idea of releasing that, like—no, no. I feel
like it’s for, like, a few, you know? It’s like the idea of saying,
‘Here’s my
middle finger, but in that middle finger, I’m trying to say, you know,
I love
you.’ It’s very complicated.”

With the Tim Burton
movie about to finish shooting, I ask him what’s next.

“The Lone Ranger and
Tonto.” In that one, if it gets made—Disney was reportedly
balking at its
budget in August—Johnny will be playing Tonto. (Armie Hammer had been
scheduled
to play the Ranger.)

Johnny is also thinking of remaking The Thin Man,
which he’s wanted to do for quite a while. He would
step into William Powell’s shoes as Nick Charles. I ask him, “Do you
think you
could be William Powell? I mean, that guy was fucking singular. There
was only
one of him.”

“I could do it. I think.”

“You probably could, because you’ve got that fine line
between humor and seriousness.”

“That’s the whole point. What he had, William Powell, was so
fucking beautiful.”

Johnny too. As Bruce Robinson later points out, the
association of Johnny in the public brainpan with the hugely successful
star-driven hits of his recent years has sometimes obscured the true
versatility and abilities that are his. It is films as The
Rum Diary that remind us of that versatility and those
abilities. But still, William Powell . . . ?

“He’s a hard guy to beat if you’re going into the ring with
him,” I point out.

Talk of William Powell leads to talk of Keith Richards, who
played Johnny’s father in the last two Pirates
of the Caribbean pictures. Keith has been a friend of
Johnny’s for some
years now. I ask Johnny if he found himself emulating Keith’s
mannerisms and
persona somewhat with the passing of those years.

“I sucked him dry,” he says without hesitation.

When I mention that Keith, who I know and who is certainly
not one for musicals, had been full of praise a few years back for
Johnny’s
singing in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber
of Fleet Street and recommended that I see it, Johnny is
visibly pleased.

“Keith always has the most beautiful things to say about
you,” I say, “but when he brought up Sweeney
Todd, he was like, ‘Oh, and to hear Johnny sing.’”

“He never told me that,” Johnny says with a smile of deep
satisfaction.

It was while making Sweeney Todd with Tim Burton that the
movie he’s now finishing with Burton was conceived. “We were on Sweeney
Todd, and I said to him, ‘Man,
we should do a vampire movie.’ He’s like, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, we should.’
And then
I went, ‘Fuck, man, Dark Shadows.’
‘Yeah, good idea. Good idea.’ And then, boom.”

“Is there a movie that you always wanted to make but have
never been able to?”

“No.”

“Tonto,” I reflect. “Nick Charles,” I reflect.

Then he raises his glass of wine, looks straight at me, and
says, “There’s also In the Hand of Dante.”

As I mentioned, Johnny had been wanting to make The
Rum Diary, had been making it in his
head for a long, long time. Hunter S. Thompson, to whose memory the
film is
dedicated, never lived to see it. He blew out his brains, at the age of
67, in
2005, just before the real making of the picture got under way.

I mention to Johnny, as a lighthearted joke but with a
hidden degree of truth on my part, that it scared me to see that
dedication to
Hunter at the close of the movie. He knows immediately what I mean.

When it was still in typescript pages, Johnny
had been the
third person, after my agent and publisher, to read my novel In
the Hand of Dante.
He called me—it
was early morning where he was, at his hameau
in France; it was late night where I was, in New York. “I’m reading
this,” he
said, “and it’s not a book; it’s a living thing.” In Paris,
one
afternoon
almost a year later, when the book was about to be published, we shook
hands to
seal a deal that my novel would become his movie. A lot of time went
by, as
handshake deals mean nothing to the lawyers, executives, gonifs, and
golems of
Hollywood. Finally—years, years—we had our legal arrangement,
settled
on a screenwriter,
and brought in Johnny’s old pal Julian Schnabel to get things going as
a
director. That’s why the loving memorial to Hunter at the end of The
Rum Diary gave me the willies.

“So,” I say, “the way I see it, In the Hand of Dante
will come out two years after I croak. I’ve
got it figured out. I’m going to beat Hunter by three years.”

“Cocksucker.” He laughs. “You prick.”

“No, really.” I laugh. “It falls in line with everything
else.”

“Should we plan that now?”

“No. I don’t want to do that, no.”

More wine, more smoke. “No, my brother,” he says, “I’ll tell
you now: the film will be made.”

Some of Johnny’s finest work remains far less known than the
big picture that brought him his fame and fortune. Jim Jarmusch’s Dead
Man, of 1995, is one of these. (It
was also Robert Mitchum’s last notable film. Johnny still laughs when
he tells
of Mitchum’s practice of stashing his marijuana in a Baggie taped to
his
crotch, on the theory: Who’s gonna go down my pants? Who’s gonna touch
Robert
Mitchum’s balls?)

Laurence Dunmore’s The
Libertine, of 2004, in which Johnny played the dissolute
17th-century poet
John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, is another.

It was perhaps the most strenuous role he has played, and
both his performance and the film were magnificent. Based on the play
by
Stephen Jeffreys, who also wrote the screenplay, the movie paired
Johnny with
John Malkovich, who is probably one of the only other actors whose
imagination,
literacy, and skills are commensurate with Johnny’s, and who had played
Johnny’s role on the stage and taken the role of Charles II in the
film. I
remember being blown away by The
Libertine. But it was given only very brief and limited
distribution. It
came and it went, so quickly withdrawn that by the time I recommended
it to
people it was gone, killed off by the then new Weinstein Company, which
produced and distributed the film as its second release.

“Are you still pissed at Harvey Weinstein for that?”

“We’ve come to a sort of agreement.”

“Did he have a reason why that movie was so ill-circulated?”

“Yeah, he basically said he fucked it.”

“Meaning he made a mistake?”

“No, He made a choice. He made a choice to kill it. Which
was understandable. I mean, understandable if you look at it from his
kind of
point of view.” Meaning, I assume, a monetary point of view. “But,
yeah,”
Johnny continues, “Harvey killed a great film.”

The Libertine
was brought to mind by The
Rum Diary, another superb picture in an age of
hundred-million-dollar junk movies full of gimmickry and idiotic sound
and fury
instead of any enduring quality or substance. The new movie is being
handled in
the U.S. by FilmDistrict, the producer Graham King’s distribution
company. But
surely, I suggest, with Johnny’s own production company behind The
Rum Diary, it will be far less vulnerable
to an unjustified fate.

“Can I do better? Maybe not. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not going to kill off your own movie?”

“I’m not sure. You know what I mean? I worked like a
cocksucker on it, but—“

Anything can happen.

So we’ll see. Can this Lowlifes of the Caribbean attract, as
it so deserves, just some of the attention and gelt that the likes of Pirates
of the Caribbean got?

Who knows? Our talk drifts, carried along by the tow of the
wine and the night.

When I first met Johnny, I think he believed he was part
Cherokee and part Irish. Years later, through genealogical research,
French
blood entered into the picture. I remember Vanessa Paradis announcing
it to me,
“Johnny’s French!” Depp from Dieppe, a Cherokee with French blood. The
French
blood was supposed to have come through his mother, Betty Sue. It made
sense.

“What are you now?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer for a
moment. “You’re getting all serious,” I say.

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“Do you ever think of yourself as anything?”

“I mean, it makes more sense, the Dieppe.”

“There were a lot of American Indians that had French names.
Is that something you would prefer to be?”

“Indian?” he suggests. Another taste of that good red wine.
“If they’ll have me.”

“How do your siblings”—besides Christi, there’s a brother
and another sister—“feel about the fact that you never seem to
physically age?”

“They seem O.K.”

It’s getting late.
Not many hours remain until Johnny has to be back on the
set.
Even I’m
getting slightly drowsy. But the Ritz Club, the blackjack tables, more
wine
await us. Johnny slowly rises, goes to put some cold water on his face
and
fetch a necktie. I light a smoke, sit with my wine, and rest my eyes.
Eventually it occurs to me that Johnny has been gone for a while. I
push myself
up off the couch and call his name. No answer. I look around for him.

He is dead-out asleep in the toilet, the perfect picture of
the wages of exhaustion. I don’t want to wake him. I just stand for a
moment
wondering. He has a beautiful château and secluded grounds in France.
He has an estate in Los Angeles. He has an idyllic island of his own.
But does
he have a hammock?